It being the new year, I am seriously thinking about losing weight in the coming months. Note please that this does not fall into the "resolution" category. You see, if I don't classify it as a resolution, then when I devour an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's mid-February I won't feel like a total failure. Yes, I know it's a matter of semantics but creative interpretation is a talent of which I can boast so indulge me, won't you?
As part of my research I surfed the various sites of the more popular weight loss programs. They all feature a previously overweight celebrity spokesperson who successfully slimmed down counting points, eating prepared meals or dancing the flab away in front of millions of viewers each week. They look fantastic so kudos to them all for sticking with it.
The thing I found disturbing, however, was an ad on at least one of the sites. The ad was for anti-depressants. Since Madison Avenue is known for target marketing, one can assume a high incidence of overweight people in need of a mood enhancing drug.
Finally the stereotype of the jolly fat person is history. Let's hear it for the real world!
Believe me, I'm not pointing an accusatory finger since I spent my first year in college popping diet pills. I wasn't depressed. Just obsessed with not gaining that "freshman fifteen". Perhaps it came from shopping for clothes in the Chubby Kids Department -- we weren't big on euphemisms in the '50s -- or from one of the nuns sending a note home suggesting my mom put me on a diet.
Thankfully we're much more sensitive to weight issues now. There are plus sizes for women and an entire shop for men who are big and tall. We use words like "Reubenesque", "Queen Size" and "zaftig" -- Yiddish for having a full, shapely figure. How can you not love that word?
For the longest time I called my extra poundage baby fat, but since it's now old enough to receive Medicare I think it's time to christen it something more accurate.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Nothing Common About a Cold
Whatever associations you have with winter -- snowmen, hot cocoa, cozy fireplace -- you can't finish your list without adding "the common cold". Tis the season to be jolly but tis also the season to sneeze your blithering brains out and cough like you're rehearsing the final tragic consumption scene from "Camille".
Tis also the time to dust off that rhetorical question "if they can put a man on the moon why can't they find a cure for the common cold?"
Having just emerged from the throes of the above mentioned affliction, I would like to know why indeed can't they discover such a cure? Imagine the kudos that researcher would receive. Nominations for a Nobel Prize, a Pulitzer, Queen of the May -- whatever's available just to show our gratitude. Anyone who's ever had a cold -- you know who you are -- would jump on the accolades bandwagon. Statues erected. Holidays assigned. Elementary schools named. Deli sandwiches added to menus.
Exaggeration you say. I think not. Remember the last time you had a cold. Now tell me if you wouldn't have liquidated your entire portfolio of tech stocks in exchange for a pill guaranteed to unclog your sinuses.
A cold isn't life threatening and it's usually history in three to seven days, but those days are a glimpse into Dante's hellish circles. I fought my recent bout with the Four Ts -- tissues, tea, toast and tomato soup. Yes, I know chicken soup is the universal cure-all, but I happen to prefer tomato -- it's great for dunking the toast.
I'm feeling much better now, thanks for asking. Using hand sanitizer religiously. Taking my vitamins. Waiting for this year's exotic flu strain to hit.
Tis also the time to dust off that rhetorical question "if they can put a man on the moon why can't they find a cure for the common cold?"
Having just emerged from the throes of the above mentioned affliction, I would like to know why indeed can't they discover such a cure? Imagine the kudos that researcher would receive. Nominations for a Nobel Prize, a Pulitzer, Queen of the May -- whatever's available just to show our gratitude. Anyone who's ever had a cold -- you know who you are -- would jump on the accolades bandwagon. Statues erected. Holidays assigned. Elementary schools named. Deli sandwiches added to menus.
Exaggeration you say. I think not. Remember the last time you had a cold. Now tell me if you wouldn't have liquidated your entire portfolio of tech stocks in exchange for a pill guaranteed to unclog your sinuses.
A cold isn't life threatening and it's usually history in three to seven days, but those days are a glimpse into Dante's hellish circles. I fought my recent bout with the Four Ts -- tissues, tea, toast and tomato soup. Yes, I know chicken soup is the universal cure-all, but I happen to prefer tomato -- it's great for dunking the toast.
I'm feeling much better now, thanks for asking. Using hand sanitizer religiously. Taking my vitamins. Waiting for this year's exotic flu strain to hit.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
What?
Let me preface the forthcoming mini-rant by proudly admitting that I love language. It's constantly changing and updating itself. Old words fall out of use to make way for the new. Slang rapidly saturates the vernacular. Unfortunately, by the time we of the elder demographic incorporate it into our vocabulary the words are outdated --- thus generating an instant eye roll from young Twihards and those suffering from Biebermania. I love the inflections, the intonation, the rhythm of English. And certain words like pizazz and oomph just tickle my tongue. I'm an avid reader and often pause to admire a well-written sentence. While I don't know the exact number, my vocabulary is probably higher than average.
Enough already. You got it. So......
Why then did I not understand one freakin' word the twenty-something techie said? I might as well have been in a computer store in downtown Minsk. I prayed for subtitles to suddenly appear on his chest. Of course they'd have been impossible to read what with my glazed over eyes. This couldn't be my beloved English, although I did hear some recognizable words. It's just that they were buried in sentences about gigabytes and HTMLs.
There's never a glossary around when you need one.
Of course I assumed the pretense of comprehension, nodding my head and throwing in a few, what I assumed to be well-placed, "I sees". To add to this charade, I jotted down a word or two so I could "follow-up".
One more lie and I was sure my nose would jut out like Pinocchio. I thanked the young man -- just being polite, not sincere -- and left the store in need of immediate resuscitation.
Forget 911. Call the nearest coffee shop and order me a double grande dose of caffeine -- stat.
Enough already. You got it. So......
Why then did I not understand one freakin' word the twenty-something techie said? I might as well have been in a computer store in downtown Minsk. I prayed for subtitles to suddenly appear on his chest. Of course they'd have been impossible to read what with my glazed over eyes. This couldn't be my beloved English, although I did hear some recognizable words. It's just that they were buried in sentences about gigabytes and HTMLs.
There's never a glossary around when you need one.
Of course I assumed the pretense of comprehension, nodding my head and throwing in a few, what I assumed to be well-placed, "I sees". To add to this charade, I jotted down a word or two so I could "follow-up".
One more lie and I was sure my nose would jut out like Pinocchio. I thanked the young man -- just being polite, not sincere -- and left the store in need of immediate resuscitation.
Forget 911. Call the nearest coffee shop and order me a double grande dose of caffeine -- stat.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Calling the Holiday Fashion Police
There's a traditional holiday song with a line something like "it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas". It goes on about the snow, decorations and general good cheer of the season.
It doesn't, however, include any reference to the god awful sweaters people wear this time of year. You know the ones I mean --- reindeer leaping over chimneys, dancing gingerbread men, multi-colored tree ornaments and snowflakes humongous enough to ground a flight at JFK.
Where are the fashion police when you need them? How is it that normally chic people lose all sense of style when it comes to these folk art sweaters? My theory is that granny or auntie or someone dear to them knit the garment and gave it as a gift so it's more of an obligation than a fashion choice. I could be way off the mark here, but that's all I've got. I just can't believe any sighted person would actually buy one of these sweaters --- even on black Friday --- at midnight.
First of all, it has a short shelf life. You can't be wearing leaping reindeer or tinsel much into January. When you take down the tree, take off the sweater. Second, make sure the person who knit it for you sees you wearing it. Tell them how toasty it is, how much you love it -- then pack it away and call the L.L. Bean emergency hot line to order a real sweater.
I've probably offended all of you who really do wear these sweaters. Maybe I'm sour grapes since I was never given a hand made Christmas sweater. You see my granny and aunties never mastered knitting beyond a certain stitch. But if you're interested, I can tell you about my many holiday scarves.
It doesn't, however, include any reference to the god awful sweaters people wear this time of year. You know the ones I mean --- reindeer leaping over chimneys, dancing gingerbread men, multi-colored tree ornaments and snowflakes humongous enough to ground a flight at JFK.
Where are the fashion police when you need them? How is it that normally chic people lose all sense of style when it comes to these folk art sweaters? My theory is that granny or auntie or someone dear to them knit the garment and gave it as a gift so it's more of an obligation than a fashion choice. I could be way off the mark here, but that's all I've got. I just can't believe any sighted person would actually buy one of these sweaters --- even on black Friday --- at midnight.
First of all, it has a short shelf life. You can't be wearing leaping reindeer or tinsel much into January. When you take down the tree, take off the sweater. Second, make sure the person who knit it for you sees you wearing it. Tell them how toasty it is, how much you love it -- then pack it away and call the L.L. Bean emergency hot line to order a real sweater.
I've probably offended all of you who really do wear these sweaters. Maybe I'm sour grapes since I was never given a hand made Christmas sweater. You see my granny and aunties never mastered knitting beyond a certain stitch. But if you're interested, I can tell you about my many holiday scarves.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Is This Really Necessary?
Something new to add to my "Is This Really Necessary?" list .... reserved seating in the movie theater. I'm not talking about advanced ticket buying which is actually a convenience. I'm talking about reserving a seat, as though you were going to Carnegie Hall. This, however, is a multiplex where seating, typically, is a free for all, much like flying Southwest.
Perhaps this is a good idea on a crowded weekend evening for a blockbuster film, but is it really necessary for a mid-week matinee?
Let me tell you about my recent experience. There was no ticket line since it was the aforementioned mid-week matinee. I told the person which movie I wanted to see but before taking my money and printing a ticket, he asked me where I would like to sit. Mentally I responded with a snippy "preferably in a chair, you idiot" but in my personal quest to be less sarcastic and more polite I kept it to a simple "excuse me?"
He explained the reserved seating procedure and turned the computer screen around so I could choose a section and row. Here we are mid-week, midday. Imagine my surprise when I had my choice of any seat in the house.
I pointed to the general area where I'd like to sit but the young man insisted, with a smile right out of a training manual, that I be specific. I pointed. He printed. Off I went to search for my assigned seat in a completely empty theater.
Did I sit in my assigned seat when there were hundreds to choose from? I most certainly did not. I seized the opportunity to defy the system --- and waited anxiously for the voice of authority to tell me to move.
Perhaps this is a good idea on a crowded weekend evening for a blockbuster film, but is it really necessary for a mid-week matinee?
Let me tell you about my recent experience. There was no ticket line since it was the aforementioned mid-week matinee. I told the person which movie I wanted to see but before taking my money and printing a ticket, he asked me where I would like to sit. Mentally I responded with a snippy "preferably in a chair, you idiot" but in my personal quest to be less sarcastic and more polite I kept it to a simple "excuse me?"
He explained the reserved seating procedure and turned the computer screen around so I could choose a section and row. Here we are mid-week, midday. Imagine my surprise when I had my choice of any seat in the house.
I pointed to the general area where I'd like to sit but the young man insisted, with a smile right out of a training manual, that I be specific. I pointed. He printed. Off I went to search for my assigned seat in a completely empty theater.
Did I sit in my assigned seat when there were hundreds to choose from? I most certainly did not. I seized the opportunity to defy the system --- and waited anxiously for the voice of authority to tell me to move.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
The Derailed Train of Thought
To be honest, I don't know that I'd have dinner with any of the Republican presidential candidates. While they might be decent people, politically they're just not all that exciting.
Think about it. These candidates have stated their position during several debates, fund raised and given speeches around the country. Yet what is the only thing people are talking about this week? Governor Perry's brain freeze.
It even beat out our knowing where in the world Matt Lauer was.
How about a little empathy, people? Granted we've probably never lost it on national television in front of millions of people, but we've all been there. Starting confidently down a train of thought when suddenly ye ol' mental faculties plummet like Wiley Coyote and his Acme anvil.
Personally, I don't think one gaffe bars anyone from the presidency but I'd want to know if this condition is chronic. I'd worry about my president sitting down with the head of North Korea trying to hammer out a nuclear agreement and ending up with a kimchee recipe instead.
Think about it. These candidates have stated their position during several debates, fund raised and given speeches around the country. Yet what is the only thing people are talking about this week? Governor Perry's brain freeze.
It even beat out our knowing where in the world Matt Lauer was.
How about a little empathy, people? Granted we've probably never lost it on national television in front of millions of people, but we've all been there. Starting confidently down a train of thought when suddenly ye ol' mental faculties plummet like Wiley Coyote and his Acme anvil.
Personally, I don't think one gaffe bars anyone from the presidency but I'd want to know if this condition is chronic. I'd worry about my president sitting down with the head of North Korea trying to hammer out a nuclear agreement and ending up with a kimchee recipe instead.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Holiday Shopping -- It's Baaack
Most of us don't like TV commercials. That's hardly breaking news. But the annoyance meter soars when said commercials promote Christmas shopping the day after Halloween. We're still picking candy corn out of our teeth when we're made to shift gears and consider a suitable gift for the dog walker and Aunt Esther.
Thanks for reminding me, but let me recover from this Trick or Treat sugar coma before compiling a shopping list.
Not that long ago, holiday shopping began with gusto the day after Thanksgiving and so did the commercials. That's plenty of time to work yourself into a retail frenzy.
As annoying as it is, this early kick-off is probably to the consumers advantage since it sparks retailers to offer good deals over a longer period. Many shops are promoting November and pre-Thanksgiving sales but I'm skeptical.
If it was actually a pre-Thanksgiving sale the ads would show the family around the dinner table drumstick in hand, a cornucopia centerpiece for effect. What do you see? A fully decorated tree, twinkle lights and people wearing Santa hats.
Retailers are desperate to get consumers to fork over some cash, but chill for just a few more weeks. Let me at least enjoy the turkey leftovers.
Thanks for reminding me, but let me recover from this Trick or Treat sugar coma before compiling a shopping list.
Not that long ago, holiday shopping began with gusto the day after Thanksgiving and so did the commercials. That's plenty of time to work yourself into a retail frenzy.
As annoying as it is, this early kick-off is probably to the consumers advantage since it sparks retailers to offer good deals over a longer period. Many shops are promoting November and pre-Thanksgiving sales but I'm skeptical.
If it was actually a pre-Thanksgiving sale the ads would show the family around the dinner table drumstick in hand, a cornucopia centerpiece for effect. What do you see? A fully decorated tree, twinkle lights and people wearing Santa hats.
Retailers are desperate to get consumers to fork over some cash, but chill for just a few more weeks. Let me at least enjoy the turkey leftovers.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Happy B-Day to Baby 7 Billion
Don't know exactly where. Don't know exactly when. But a United Nations agency predicts October 31st is when the 7 billionth person will be born on this mud ball we inhabit. I'd better get more Halloween candy.
Seven billion people. No wonder my elbows have less room. Personally, I don't take up much space and maintain a small environmental footprint. I live in a studio apartment, ride public transportation, recycle, compost and changed all my light bulbs to the spirally kind -- not great for reading but they last longer than some of my relationships.
What will the world will be like when this 7 billionth baby is old enough to ask questions? Here's hoping that we'll be using the past tense when telling stories about hunger and wars.
I don't expect a round of Koombayah, but a little international togetherness could be fun.
What if all 7 billion of us burped simultaneously? Could you really call it a Guinness World Record since we are the world? Something to ponder while I wait in the supermarket line with what seems like 6 billion of my fellow humans.
Seven billion people. No wonder my elbows have less room. Personally, I don't take up much space and maintain a small environmental footprint. I live in a studio apartment, ride public transportation, recycle, compost and changed all my light bulbs to the spirally kind -- not great for reading but they last longer than some of my relationships.
What will the world will be like when this 7 billionth baby is old enough to ask questions? Here's hoping that we'll be using the past tense when telling stories about hunger and wars.
I don't expect a round of Koombayah, but a little international togetherness could be fun.
What if all 7 billion of us burped simultaneously? Could you really call it a Guinness World Record since we are the world? Something to ponder while I wait in the supermarket line with what seems like 6 billion of my fellow humans.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Oxymoron of the Year? Amish Gangs!
This could be the perfect day to watch out for airborne pigs or shiver because hell has indeed frozen over.
Why, you ask, are you any more likely today to see that rare flying porcine or feel the temps plummet in Hades? Because the Amish have gangs, that's why!
Amish gangs. Add that to your list of oxymorons.
Personally I've never met an Amish person. Oprah visited a family once and I've seen the movie "Witness". These hardly make me an Amish expert, but I'm certain they're a peaceful lot.
According to news reports, groups of young men are attacking elders by cutting their beards and hair. Not exactly Sharks and Jets material, but a serious act of disrespect for the Amish.
So do they really call themselves gangs or has the media dubbed them that, because my stereotype is a guy loaded with bling wearing a muscle shirt to show off his tats.
I can't imagine an Amish teen with a horse and buggy inked on his forearm.
But look --- there goes that pig again!
Why, you ask, are you any more likely today to see that rare flying porcine or feel the temps plummet in Hades? Because the Amish have gangs, that's why!
Amish gangs. Add that to your list of oxymorons.
Personally I've never met an Amish person. Oprah visited a family once and I've seen the movie "Witness". These hardly make me an Amish expert, but I'm certain they're a peaceful lot.
According to news reports, groups of young men are attacking elders by cutting their beards and hair. Not exactly Sharks and Jets material, but a serious act of disrespect for the Amish.
So do they really call themselves gangs or has the media dubbed them that, because my stereotype is a guy loaded with bling wearing a muscle shirt to show off his tats.
I can't imagine an Amish teen with a horse and buggy inked on his forearm.
But look --- there goes that pig again!
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Hash & Re-hash -- The New TV Season
Lawyers, doctors, detectives.
If we were on Jeopardy, the question might be "What are the only professions TV shows portray?" Well, only might be a stretch but not by much.
These lawyers, doctors and detectives are all fashion mag perfect and qualify for any number of "most beautiful people" lists. There's sexual tension galore and racy story lines that make the bodice ripping novels look like kid lit.
A few years ago I was asked to testify against a guy who decided to include some of my belongings in his thieving spree. That was the first time I'd been in a courtroom and I fully expected something comparable to what I'd seen on TV. Dynamic, well -spoken attorneys dressed in Brooks Brothers suits defending their clients from injustice. Gritty, witty, curmudgeonly judges bantering with counsel. Drama from the opening gavel, right?
On the contrary! The experience still ranks high on my snooze scale. Lots of paper shuffling, waiting for people to show up (my guy never did) and attorney posturing.
Most lawyer, doctor and detective shows use cookie cutter characters and plots tweaked a tad so as not be recognized from last season or from a competing show. Hash and re-hash -- the new motto for this year's TV season.
If we were on Jeopardy, the question might be "What are the only professions TV shows portray?" Well, only might be a stretch but not by much.
These lawyers, doctors and detectives are all fashion mag perfect and qualify for any number of "most beautiful people" lists. There's sexual tension galore and racy story lines that make the bodice ripping novels look like kid lit.
A few years ago I was asked to testify against a guy who decided to include some of my belongings in his thieving spree. That was the first time I'd been in a courtroom and I fully expected something comparable to what I'd seen on TV. Dynamic, well -spoken attorneys dressed in Brooks Brothers suits defending their clients from injustice. Gritty, witty, curmudgeonly judges bantering with counsel. Drama from the opening gavel, right?
On the contrary! The experience still ranks high on my snooze scale. Lots of paper shuffling, waiting for people to show up (my guy never did) and attorney posturing.
Most lawyer, doctor and detective shows use cookie cutter characters and plots tweaked a tad so as not be recognized from last season or from a competing show. Hash and re-hash -- the new motto for this year's TV season.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Let's Hear it for Columbus
Columbus Day is one of those kinda sorta American holidays. Some of us have to work. Some of us don't. There are no greeting cards to celebrate the day, no traditional foods or activities. In 1937, the president made it an official holiday but not everyone agrees. Hawaii celebrates it as Discoverer's Day, South Dakota and Oklahoma changed the name to Native American Day. And in 1992, Berkeley, California dubbed it Indigenous People's Day.
How did it ever get to be a holiday in the first place? My guess is one ultra influential Italian-American lobby that wouldn't stop til they got their October day.
Think about it. Columbus never set foot on American soil. While he might have dipped a tootsie or two in the Atlantic, the water was Bahamian, not Floridian. Yes, he came close but since when does close get you an entire holiday?
In elementary school we drew countless pictures of the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria. The significance of October 12th, 1492 was drilled into our malleable little heads. If the nun said it, it was gospel. Free thinking and question asking was frowned upon in my Catholic school.
Imagine -- if we were misled about Chris' voyage, what other false or misinformation is stored in our mental hard drives? More importantly, how can we delete it?
How did it ever get to be a holiday in the first place? My guess is one ultra influential Italian-American lobby that wouldn't stop til they got their October day.
Think about it. Columbus never set foot on American soil. While he might have dipped a tootsie or two in the Atlantic, the water was Bahamian, not Floridian. Yes, he came close but since when does close get you an entire holiday?
In elementary school we drew countless pictures of the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria. The significance of October 12th, 1492 was drilled into our malleable little heads. If the nun said it, it was gospel. Free thinking and question asking was frowned upon in my Catholic school.
Imagine -- if we were misled about Chris' voyage, what other false or misinformation is stored in our mental hard drives? More importantly, how can we delete it?
Sunday, October 2, 2011
A Little Dab'll Do Ya
Smoking is forbidden in public places. Kid's meals at fast food restaurants are banned in an effort to combat childhood obesity. We no longer talk on the phone while driving. We wear seat belts, helmets and pads -- just in case.
When we're serious about a cause we tackle it head on until we get what we want.
The next issue? Perfume -- the overuse thereof. Now I'm not against perfume in general but I always thought the idea was to dab it -- and most women know just where the dabs should go for full effect (wink, wink). What I am opposed to is excess -- the overwhelming smell that makes you think the wearer either lost control of the atomizer or accidentally spilled the bottle on their person.
Yours might be a lovely fragrance, but know when too much is too much. Too much reminds you of a maiden aunt who, on family holidays, held you to her ample bosom until you nearly suffocated. Hers was a mixture of perfume, hairspray, bath powder and make-up -- the perfect storm that temporarily shut down all olfactory functions. Too much reminds you of the stereotypical cheap hooker -- never having been around a cheap hooker or even an expensive one, I'll have to trust the stereotype.
Back in the day, perfume counter demonstrators in department stores randomly sprayed customers. Now they have to ask first. That's a start, and we'll just take it one spritz at a time.
When we're serious about a cause we tackle it head on until we get what we want.
The next issue? Perfume -- the overuse thereof. Now I'm not against perfume in general but I always thought the idea was to dab it -- and most women know just where the dabs should go for full effect (wink, wink). What I am opposed to is excess -- the overwhelming smell that makes you think the wearer either lost control of the atomizer or accidentally spilled the bottle on their person.
Yours might be a lovely fragrance, but know when too much is too much. Too much reminds you of a maiden aunt who, on family holidays, held you to her ample bosom until you nearly suffocated. Hers was a mixture of perfume, hairspray, bath powder and make-up -- the perfect storm that temporarily shut down all olfactory functions. Too much reminds you of the stereotypical cheap hooker -- never having been around a cheap hooker or even an expensive one, I'll have to trust the stereotype.
Back in the day, perfume counter demonstrators in department stores randomly sprayed customers. Now they have to ask first. That's a start, and we'll just take it one spritz at a time.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Centenarians by the Hundreds
Thanks to the outrageously expensive miracles of modern medicine, our average life expectancy is increasing. Not surprisingly, so is the number of centenarians. But is it natural for humans to live that long?
Think of a '57 Chevy. You can drive that baby for decades but at some point the odometer triumphs, things fall apart and you become a regular Car Talk caller.
Isn't it similar with our bodies? I'm a '46 model and frankly, I need more than an oil change to keep me breezing down the turnpike of life. Luckily, there's a multitude of replacement parts available. New hips. New knees. New face. Mr. Potato Head come to life.
A recent article in the New York Times said that people over 65 are a prime market for plastic surgery. The article said that in 2010, approximately 84,685 procedures were done on the geezer demographic. Apparently a professional can lift just about any body part the patient asks for.
Me? Breast lift, please. And while I'm under, check the jowls. I long ago waved the white flag at that enemy called gravity but maybe it's not too late to sneak up on it with a bit of a nip/tuck.
What brought this on? I was speaking with a man today who claimed to be 90. Great posture. Thick white hair. And his face? My linen shirts have more wrinkles. Boy, would I like a dip in that gene pool.
Think of a '57 Chevy. You can drive that baby for decades but at some point the odometer triumphs, things fall apart and you become a regular Car Talk caller.
Isn't it similar with our bodies? I'm a '46 model and frankly, I need more than an oil change to keep me breezing down the turnpike of life. Luckily, there's a multitude of replacement parts available. New hips. New knees. New face. Mr. Potato Head come to life.
A recent article in the New York Times said that people over 65 are a prime market for plastic surgery. The article said that in 2010, approximately 84,685 procedures were done on the geezer demographic. Apparently a professional can lift just about any body part the patient asks for.
Me? Breast lift, please. And while I'm under, check the jowls. I long ago waved the white flag at that enemy called gravity but maybe it's not too late to sneak up on it with a bit of a nip/tuck.
What brought this on? I was speaking with a man today who claimed to be 90. Great posture. Thick white hair. And his face? My linen shirts have more wrinkles. Boy, would I like a dip in that gene pool.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
My Smart Phone Isn't
I wouldn't answer to Luddite, but I'm not a consumer of all the latest gadgets, apps and adult toys either. Let me clarify "toys". I refer to the technical kind, not those for the bedroom, but then what would a former Catholic school girl know about those anyway.
While most people now have smart phones, mine is only of average intelligence. While some smart phones are artificially intelligent enough to attend Harvard, mine would do well at a community college. My phone would never be asked to hang out with the cool kids. It seriously lacks the necessary bells and whistles to be classified as smart.
Don't get me wrong. I think cell phones are right up there in the "greatest thing since sliced bread" category. Sure beats hunting for a pay phone like we did back in the day. Can you even find a phone booth anymore? Prediction: One will turn up on Antiques Roadshow ten years from now and it'll be worth an absolute fortune.
Keep it simple is my mantra. I want my phone to display all the little bars, connect after I enter a number, take a photo and let me send a text or two. I don't expect it to do my laundry and melt s'mores -- although both might be apps I'd buy into.
While most people now have smart phones, mine is only of average intelligence. While some smart phones are artificially intelligent enough to attend Harvard, mine would do well at a community college. My phone would never be asked to hang out with the cool kids. It seriously lacks the necessary bells and whistles to be classified as smart.
Don't get me wrong. I think cell phones are right up there in the "greatest thing since sliced bread" category. Sure beats hunting for a pay phone like we did back in the day. Can you even find a phone booth anymore? Prediction: One will turn up on Antiques Roadshow ten years from now and it'll be worth an absolute fortune.
Keep it simple is my mantra. I want my phone to display all the little bars, connect after I enter a number, take a photo and let me send a text or two. I don't expect it to do my laundry and melt s'mores -- although both might be apps I'd buy into.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Tea -- The Drink of the Civilized
If I ever become an ex-pat, I probably would survive well in England what with my being a tea lover. I'm not quite as fanatic as they are, meaning I don't believe it to be liquid manna with heavenly properties. But I do enjoy a cup of the herbal brew.
Watch British movies or Masterpiece on PBS and you know the Brits solve what ails them by putting the kettle on. Broke up with the louse? Drown your sorrows in a cup of tea. Bad news from the bathroom scale? Tea has no calories so drink up. Got a haircut from a visually impaired stylist? Tea will make it grow back faster.
Tea is the Brits answer to Prozac. Tea -- the elixir that takes the edge off of life. Throw a warm scone into the mix and life is good again.
Last week I was one with the Brits. After an unusually frantic day all I wanted was to relax with, yes, a cup of tea. I brewed a pot of honey chamomile -- my favorite. After all, it is the tea Peter Rabbit's mother made after his episode in Mr. MacGregor's garden. I poured it into my favorite cup -- also part of the ritual. Tea in a styrofoam container or paper cup is utterly barbaric. It's right up there with champagne in a Flintstone jelly glass.
I took one sip, then another. Cross my heart, I swear I heard an "aaahhhhh". Undoubtedly a chorus of stressed out cells thankful for a freakin' break.
Never again will I pooh-pooh the Brits and their miracle brew. Now I get it.
Watch British movies or Masterpiece on PBS and you know the Brits solve what ails them by putting the kettle on. Broke up with the louse? Drown your sorrows in a cup of tea. Bad news from the bathroom scale? Tea has no calories so drink up. Got a haircut from a visually impaired stylist? Tea will make it grow back faster.
Tea is the Brits answer to Prozac. Tea -- the elixir that takes the edge off of life. Throw a warm scone into the mix and life is good again.
Last week I was one with the Brits. After an unusually frantic day all I wanted was to relax with, yes, a cup of tea. I brewed a pot of honey chamomile -- my favorite. After all, it is the tea Peter Rabbit's mother made after his episode in Mr. MacGregor's garden. I poured it into my favorite cup -- also part of the ritual. Tea in a styrofoam container or paper cup is utterly barbaric. It's right up there with champagne in a Flintstone jelly glass.
I took one sip, then another. Cross my heart, I swear I heard an "aaahhhhh". Undoubtedly a chorus of stressed out cells thankful for a freakin' break.
Never again will I pooh-pooh the Brits and their miracle brew. Now I get it.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
School Daze
Now that summer is over, I see parents walking their kids to school in the morning. To be more accurate, it's usually the kid scurrying behind the parent trying to keep up. The parents look harried. The kids look like they're heading to their doom.
Now I was one of those weird kids who loved school -- except for math class which I had no interest in and therefore no understanding of or is it the reverse. I never actually skipped to school wearing a broad "yippee, I'm going to spend six hours with the nuns" grin, but I didn't look as though my hamster just died either.
Is it because these kids are going to public school? I'd probably not have a rosy outlook either if I was subjected to a backpack search and metal detector scan even though I'm only in the third grade. Perhaps they're wondering what mystery meat will be served in the cafeteria and why the giant sixth grade bully wants their portion too.
Maybe they're worried the teacher won't believe that the dog really did eat their homework or anxious that an asteroid will land in the classroom or nervous that they'll be the last kid picked for volleyball during gym.
Now that I think about it, these kids have good reason to be grim. And this is without knowing that the quality of their education is far from A+.
All we had to worry about in elementary school was the Red Menace. Atomic bombs. Our innocent classmates kidnapped, brainwashed and adopted by a Russian family. Yes, things were simpler then.
Now I was one of those weird kids who loved school -- except for math class which I had no interest in and therefore no understanding of or is it the reverse. I never actually skipped to school wearing a broad "yippee, I'm going to spend six hours with the nuns" grin, but I didn't look as though my hamster just died either.
Is it because these kids are going to public school? I'd probably not have a rosy outlook either if I was subjected to a backpack search and metal detector scan even though I'm only in the third grade. Perhaps they're wondering what mystery meat will be served in the cafeteria and why the giant sixth grade bully wants their portion too.
Maybe they're worried the teacher won't believe that the dog really did eat their homework or anxious that an asteroid will land in the classroom or nervous that they'll be the last kid picked for volleyball during gym.
Now that I think about it, these kids have good reason to be grim. And this is without knowing that the quality of their education is far from A+.
All we had to worry about in elementary school was the Red Menace. Atomic bombs. Our innocent classmates kidnapped, brainwashed and adopted by a Russian family. Yes, things were simpler then.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Bibliotherapy -- Read Your Troubles Away
My philosophy of life can be summed up like so: Some days you're the pigeon and some days you're the statue.
It's those "statue" days when we need to wind down, decompress, chill out, tune out -- fill in additional synonyms here. Everyone has their own way of achieving that goal: yoga, meditation, snacking, hot baths, watching a mindless TV program (is that redundant?).
For me there's nothing like a little bibliotherapy. Give me a well-written book and I'll forget about the blasted pigeons before the first chapter ends. Even a poorly-written one can do the trick since it triggers my inner critic and allows me to mentally trash the moron who wrote it. There's undoubtedly some psychological term for this transference of anger but let's not get too Dr. Phil here.
Top of the list? Hands down, any chapter in which Elizabeth Bennett is vexed by Mr. Darcy. Ahh, the cure for even the worst caca day.
It doesn't matter whether you use your finger to turn the page or touch the screen on your e-reader, reading is your ticket out of what ails you. Pleasant journey.
It's those "statue" days when we need to wind down, decompress, chill out, tune out -- fill in additional synonyms here. Everyone has their own way of achieving that goal: yoga, meditation, snacking, hot baths, watching a mindless TV program (is that redundant?).
For me there's nothing like a little bibliotherapy. Give me a well-written book and I'll forget about the blasted pigeons before the first chapter ends. Even a poorly-written one can do the trick since it triggers my inner critic and allows me to mentally trash the moron who wrote it. There's undoubtedly some psychological term for this transference of anger but let's not get too Dr. Phil here.
Top of the list? Hands down, any chapter in which Elizabeth Bennett is vexed by Mr. Darcy. Ahh, the cure for even the worst caca day.
It doesn't matter whether you use your finger to turn the page or touch the screen on your e-reader, reading is your ticket out of what ails you. Pleasant journey.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Lefties -- Penmanship Not Politics
August 13 marked the 19th Annual Left Handers Day Celebration.
What's that? You missed it? Figures. We lefties -- I'm talking penmanship here, not politics -- are used to being forgotten. After all, only 13% of us belong to this elite group and we long ago conceded that this is a right-handed world.
Surely you've watched a leftie attempt to cut with a scissors. Maybe even laughed at what you saw. No arguing that it is indeed awkward. That innocent little tool has contributed to the plight of we lefties since pre-school. Everyone's Valentine showed neat, rounded edges -- yes, even with those ridiculous blunted scissors. Mine looked like the class gerbil gnawed his way around the outside. Scissors are definitely made for right-handers.
Personally, I'm ladle-phobic. I'd feel more comfortable in a tutu en pointe with the Bolshoi than scooping liquid out of a soup tureen. I have no proof that the ladle favors the right-handed majority, but it saps what little dexterity I have remaining using either hand. I've offered guests my first born child if only they'd fill my punch glass.
Remember elementary school desks? Obviously designed by a right-hander. The desktops were shaped similar to an artist's palette but they were always attached to the right side of the desk. In order to apply pen to paper, we lefties were forced to contort our little bodies, thus making future chiropractic patients of us all.
As payback for sticking us with the root word "sinistra" in Latin and "gauche" in French, we were compelled to excel and become creative geniuses like Leonardo or over-achievers like President Obama -- both of whom would be installed in the Left Handers Hall of Fame if anyone should decide to establish one. The left bank of Paris would be an excellent site.
What's that? You missed it? Figures. We lefties -- I'm talking penmanship here, not politics -- are used to being forgotten. After all, only 13% of us belong to this elite group and we long ago conceded that this is a right-handed world.
Surely you've watched a leftie attempt to cut with a scissors. Maybe even laughed at what you saw. No arguing that it is indeed awkward. That innocent little tool has contributed to the plight of we lefties since pre-school. Everyone's Valentine showed neat, rounded edges -- yes, even with those ridiculous blunted scissors. Mine looked like the class gerbil gnawed his way around the outside. Scissors are definitely made for right-handers.
Personally, I'm ladle-phobic. I'd feel more comfortable in a tutu en pointe with the Bolshoi than scooping liquid out of a soup tureen. I have no proof that the ladle favors the right-handed majority, but it saps what little dexterity I have remaining using either hand. I've offered guests my first born child if only they'd fill my punch glass.
Remember elementary school desks? Obviously designed by a right-hander. The desktops were shaped similar to an artist's palette but they were always attached to the right side of the desk. In order to apply pen to paper, we lefties were forced to contort our little bodies, thus making future chiropractic patients of us all.
As payback for sticking us with the root word "sinistra" in Latin and "gauche" in French, we were compelled to excel and become creative geniuses like Leonardo or over-achievers like President Obama -- both of whom would be installed in the Left Handers Hall of Fame if anyone should decide to establish one. The left bank of Paris would be an excellent site.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
C-SPAN - The Site for Congressional Drama
All right America. Breathe in...2-3-4...breathe out...2-3-4. Again. Breathe in...2-3-4...breathe out...2-3-4. Again......
Feel more relaxed now? Less of an angry villager, torches ablaze? Good.
Now I know we've been through an ordeal and whether you agree that the opposition are Hobbits or not (frankly, I think it's a slur on the Hobbits) the ugliness is over at least til after Labor Day. Then the bickering will resume but no one will be wearing white.
They all need a massive time-out. Some of them a massive time out of office.
What's with all the drama? Monday morning: one party steps up to the microphones to say their idea is best and they won't budge. Hold that thought, because momentarily the other party does exactly the same. Tuesday morning: one party steps up the microphones to say their idea is best and they won't budge. It's like "Groundhog Day" without the levity. Fans of the soaps are lamenting their cancellation. Cheer up. All the drama has moved to C-SPAN.
Whose idea was the debt ceiling countdown clock? It felt like a game show prop. I sat waiting for a senator to buy a vowel.
Why do we vote for these morons? What do they actually do on a daily basis? Could you hem and haw, use such histrionics and be that indecisive on your job? I venture to answer for you a resounding "no".
Thank goodness for August. Things are quieter, more relaxed. It'll give me time to read up on this blasted credit downgrade and to decide for myself whether it actually does signal the end of the world as we know it.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Brunch, Lunch -- Let's Eat
I am invited to brunch Sunday at noon. There's no question in my mind that this is indeed brunch because of the arranged time. However, another guest insists that it's lunch because of the arranged time. Before we debate this any further, let's check with the authority.
According to Webster brunch is "the late first meal of the day that takes the place of both breakfast and lunch". The word, as we all know, is taken from the first letters of breakfast and the last letters of lunch. Personally, I love these coined combination words when they really are descriptive and fill a lexical gap. Smog and frenemy are two others I can think of offhand. The love dissipates though when the tabloids and entertainment TV use them to refer to the latest hot celebrity couple. If you've never heard of Brangelina you must have been residing in another galaxy.
Back to brunch. It does seem that brunch is restricted to a meal only on weekends, especially Sunday. During the work week we have lunch noonish. No one ever tells their colleagues they're off to brunch. And if we go out around eleven, we say it's an early lunch. Most offices have a lunch hour from 12 to 1 -- a mere sixty minutes to scarf down a deli sandwich, pick up a birthday card and drop off the dry cleaning.
Thus it would appear that brunch has been relegated to the more relaxing Sundays when we can sip a mimosa and calmly wait for the chef to Benedict the eggs and French the toast.
Meanwhile, I am indeed going to brunch on Sunday and I do hope the other guest comes for lunch. What we call it isn't important. Let's eat!
According to Webster brunch is "the late first meal of the day that takes the place of both breakfast and lunch". The word, as we all know, is taken from the first letters of breakfast and the last letters of lunch. Personally, I love these coined combination words when they really are descriptive and fill a lexical gap. Smog and frenemy are two others I can think of offhand. The love dissipates though when the tabloids and entertainment TV use them to refer to the latest hot celebrity couple. If you've never heard of Brangelina you must have been residing in another galaxy.
Back to brunch. It does seem that brunch is restricted to a meal only on weekends, especially Sunday. During the work week we have lunch noonish. No one ever tells their colleagues they're off to brunch. And if we go out around eleven, we say it's an early lunch. Most offices have a lunch hour from 12 to 1 -- a mere sixty minutes to scarf down a deli sandwich, pick up a birthday card and drop off the dry cleaning.
Thus it would appear that brunch has been relegated to the more relaxing Sundays when we can sip a mimosa and calmly wait for the chef to Benedict the eggs and French the toast.
Meanwhile, I am indeed going to brunch on Sunday and I do hope the other guest comes for lunch. What we call it isn't important. Let's eat!
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Hooked on a Feeling
Don't you think we've become a tad too paranoid? I ask because I've seen commercials on TV recently promoting background checks before dating someone.
Whatever happened to listening to your gut and female intuition? I like to think it was Cleopatra's intuition that had her slipping into that Egyptian cotton negligee for Marc Antony. Conqueror or not, she just knew a hot, hunky Roman when she saw one. I somehow doubt that she asked the high priests to comb pages of parchment for background info before making her move.
Lest we forget the husband of all husbands -- Henry VIII. Perhaps it's more difficult to listen to your gut when you're being pursued by royalty. But let's face it, those women could have benefited from a quick Google search. Don't know that I'd date someone -- royalty or not -- with a beheading in his profile.
My other problem with background checks is that they'll put a dent in our "worst date ever" stories. Yes, you'll know he's wanted in Ohio for a felony -- definitely red flag material. But you'll never have a story to tell the girls about his quest for a competitive eating championship, his skinhead politics and his obsession with tapioca.
I refuse to concede that good old home-grown intuition has been trumped by technology. When that little voice tells me this guy is a wacko, I listen. Do I really need to confirm that with Interpol?
Whatever happened to listening to your gut and female intuition? I like to think it was Cleopatra's intuition that had her slipping into that Egyptian cotton negligee for Marc Antony. Conqueror or not, she just knew a hot, hunky Roman when she saw one. I somehow doubt that she asked the high priests to comb pages of parchment for background info before making her move.
Lest we forget the husband of all husbands -- Henry VIII. Perhaps it's more difficult to listen to your gut when you're being pursued by royalty. But let's face it, those women could have benefited from a quick Google search. Don't know that I'd date someone -- royalty or not -- with a beheading in his profile.
My other problem with background checks is that they'll put a dent in our "worst date ever" stories. Yes, you'll know he's wanted in Ohio for a felony -- definitely red flag material. But you'll never have a story to tell the girls about his quest for a competitive eating championship, his skinhead politics and his obsession with tapioca.
I refuse to concede that good old home-grown intuition has been trumped by technology. When that little voice tells me this guy is a wacko, I listen. Do I really need to confirm that with Interpol?
Saturday, July 23, 2011
I've Hair On My Chinny Chin Chin
One of the positive things about ageing -- and I am keeping a list -- is that my body hair has stopped growing. I no longer shave my legs or underarms and I'm in no danger of being mistaken for any type of simian.
One of the negative things about ageing -- and I am keeping a list -- is that that same body hair that was once growing on my legs and underarms has found a new home on my chin.
I pluck it, I shave it and it just keeps coming back like some follicle possessed by a boomerang. Remember the story of the three little pigs? The wolf bangs on the door to be let in and the pigs defy him by taunting "not by the hair on my chinny chin chin". As a kid I thought it was just a clever rhyme. I am no longer laughing.
Think of how illustrators and cartoonists portray crones, hags and wicked witches. Of course there's the obligatory warts and perhaps a greenish skin tone. But what else do they have in common? Yes, chin hair. A lovely image, is it not?
It's not like I'm sporting a goatee -- now that would have me in the electrologist's chair in a New York minute. Much like the teenager with a zit on prom night, I feel like all of mankind sees it --- and, left unplucked -- will soon have its own address on a social networking site.
One of the negative things about ageing -- and I am keeping a list -- is that that same body hair that was once growing on my legs and underarms has found a new home on my chin.
I pluck it, I shave it and it just keeps coming back like some follicle possessed by a boomerang. Remember the story of the three little pigs? The wolf bangs on the door to be let in and the pigs defy him by taunting "not by the hair on my chinny chin chin". As a kid I thought it was just a clever rhyme. I am no longer laughing.
Think of how illustrators and cartoonists portray crones, hags and wicked witches. Of course there's the obligatory warts and perhaps a greenish skin tone. But what else do they have in common? Yes, chin hair. A lovely image, is it not?
It's not like I'm sporting a goatee -- now that would have me in the electrologist's chair in a New York minute. Much like the teenager with a zit on prom night, I feel like all of mankind sees it --- and, left unplucked -- will soon have its own address on a social networking site.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Earworms For Your Listening Pleasure?
Note: I almost didn't write this entry for fear of experiencing that of which I write, but I'm going for it anyway and here's hoping.
It's a universal experience. It knows no economic or social barriers. No geographic boundaries. The pan flute players in the Andes experience the same effect as a Montana cowboy. It's that pesky melody that sticks in your head for what seems like an endless period of time. It's the earworm.
Did you know that mind numbing ditty had a name? I've not researched this topic so I can't vouch for the scientific credibility of the name -- sounds a tad Urban Dictionary -- but it certainly is descriptive, even borderline yucky.
Stay with me here. This topic, like a yawn, is highly suggestive and contagious. I know you're thinking of personal earworm incidents this very minute, but don't go there or you'll fall down the rabbit hole.
Earworms that enter our head from commercials are the worst. I don't mind spinning a Gershwin classic or maybe something from the Beatles songbook in my mental jukebox, but I really hate being sucked in by Madison Avenue jingles promoting booze and burgers.
And why can we both listen to the same music and it becomes an earworm for you and not me? Is it like the tornadoes that destroy one house on the block and others remain intact? Is it yet another totally random thing in life -- don't know how many more of those I can take -- or just freakin' luck.
The life cycle of an earworm varies from a few hours to the insanity creating few days. No cure is known for this malady but if some researcher comes up with one, he should be nominated for a Nobel Prize.
It's a universal experience. It knows no economic or social barriers. No geographic boundaries. The pan flute players in the Andes experience the same effect as a Montana cowboy. It's that pesky melody that sticks in your head for what seems like an endless period of time. It's the earworm.
Did you know that mind numbing ditty had a name? I've not researched this topic so I can't vouch for the scientific credibility of the name -- sounds a tad Urban Dictionary -- but it certainly is descriptive, even borderline yucky.
Stay with me here. This topic, like a yawn, is highly suggestive and contagious. I know you're thinking of personal earworm incidents this very minute, but don't go there or you'll fall down the rabbit hole.
Earworms that enter our head from commercials are the worst. I don't mind spinning a Gershwin classic or maybe something from the Beatles songbook in my mental jukebox, but I really hate being sucked in by Madison Avenue jingles promoting booze and burgers.
And why can we both listen to the same music and it becomes an earworm for you and not me? Is it like the tornadoes that destroy one house on the block and others remain intact? Is it yet another totally random thing in life -- don't know how many more of those I can take -- or just freakin' luck.
The life cycle of an earworm varies from a few hours to the insanity creating few days. No cure is known for this malady but if some researcher comes up with one, he should be nominated for a Nobel Prize.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Competitive Eating -- for Charity
A European visitor asked how we celebrate Independence Day. My answer included barbecues, picnics, beach-going and fireworks. My answer did not include the annual hot dog eating competition in New York.
Some might think competitive eating fun -- a sport even. I personally find it a humongous gross out. The world already thinks Americans are fat and wasteful. What better way to prove their point than by watching people cram hot dogs down their throats while the clock counts down. For this the winner gets paid a few thou.
It's all American hot dogs on the 4th, but there are similar contests throughout the year -- same idea, different main course. The current champion earned six-figures last year. He presumably spends some of the prize money on antacid.
Competitive eating lionizes gluttony -- and violates all the table manners mom taught us. But there may be a way to make it less repulsive. Ready for a bright idea? Insert drum roll here.
There are so many people out of work and hungry. Why not make competitive eating a fund raiser? We walk for breast cancer, Alzheimer's and any number of diseases. Why not eat for food banks, soup kitchens and shelters?
I might actually wear the t-shirt and cheer on a contestant if it was for a good cause. Don't know if I could actually watch the action though. Charity or no charity, that part is still disgusting.
Some might think competitive eating fun -- a sport even. I personally find it a humongous gross out. The world already thinks Americans are fat and wasteful. What better way to prove their point than by watching people cram hot dogs down their throats while the clock counts down. For this the winner gets paid a few thou.
It's all American hot dogs on the 4th, but there are similar contests throughout the year -- same idea, different main course. The current champion earned six-figures last year. He presumably spends some of the prize money on antacid.
Competitive eating lionizes gluttony -- and violates all the table manners mom taught us. But there may be a way to make it less repulsive. Ready for a bright idea? Insert drum roll here.
There are so many people out of work and hungry. Why not make competitive eating a fund raiser? We walk for breast cancer, Alzheimer's and any number of diseases. Why not eat for food banks, soup kitchens and shelters?
I might actually wear the t-shirt and cheer on a contestant if it was for a good cause. Don't know if I could actually watch the action though. Charity or no charity, that part is still disgusting.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
The Mother of All Mothers-in-Law
If you are or have ever been married, you know the power of the mother-in-law. You are now in-charge of her baby and, in her mind, there's no possible way you are capable of doing a grand a job as she did. It doesn't matter if you've won the Nobel Prize, achieved sainthood or discovered a cure for cancer.
The first time my mother-in-law came to visit, I cleaned as though Jesus, Mary and Joseph were travelling with her. I planned meals and tested so many recipes I made Martha Stewart look like a slacker. I became obsessed with locating dust bunnies and their subsequent obliteration. I was sure she was intent on white-gloving my house and I desperately wanted to pass inspection. Was it my mother-in-law coming or General Eisenhower?
But what happens if your mother-in-law was a fashion icon, internationally beloved, who died tragically at a young age? The media will remind you of her every twelve seconds. They will show a myriad of photos of her and make endless comparisons -- how you have a similar sense of style, how affable you are, how you put one foot in front of the other and on and on until it borders on creepy and slightly Oedipal. What with the intense media coverage, I'm surprised no one brought in Dr. Phil to discuss whether or not William was marrying a ringer for his mom. Poor taste? Probably.
Kate, the new duchess of somewhere, is on the cover of a news weekly out and about with a computer-aged Diana at 50. I feel for Kate. Whether digitally enhanced or hundreds of hours of archival footage, the newlywed has the mother of all mother-in-law issues -- living in the grandest of royal shadows.
The first time my mother-in-law came to visit, I cleaned as though Jesus, Mary and Joseph were travelling with her. I planned meals and tested so many recipes I made Martha Stewart look like a slacker. I became obsessed with locating dust bunnies and their subsequent obliteration. I was sure she was intent on white-gloving my house and I desperately wanted to pass inspection. Was it my mother-in-law coming or General Eisenhower?
But what happens if your mother-in-law was a fashion icon, internationally beloved, who died tragically at a young age? The media will remind you of her every twelve seconds. They will show a myriad of photos of her and make endless comparisons -- how you have a similar sense of style, how affable you are, how you put one foot in front of the other and on and on until it borders on creepy and slightly Oedipal. What with the intense media coverage, I'm surprised no one brought in Dr. Phil to discuss whether or not William was marrying a ringer for his mom. Poor taste? Probably.
Kate, the new duchess of somewhere, is on the cover of a news weekly out and about with a computer-aged Diana at 50. I feel for Kate. Whether digitally enhanced or hundreds of hours of archival footage, the newlywed has the mother of all mother-in-law issues -- living in the grandest of royal shadows.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
One Can Only Dream of Jeannie
Remember the "I Dream of Jeannie" series from the '60s? Barbara Eden in her harem outfit, wielding a killer head nod, causing all kinds of innocent mischief for her master. Did you know that network censors made her cover her belly button? Ah, the x-rated bare navel -- serious titillation for teenage boys, and perhaps their fathers as well, in the early part of that repressed decade.
Fast forward some forty-plus years. If it's titillation you're looking for, turn on just about any channel. The recent Miss USA pageant featured belly button-exposed contestants in itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny yellow polka dot bikinis (sorry, I know that song's going to run through your head, but it so fit my sentence) skimpy enough for the beaches of Brazil.
TV has gone from banning belly buttons to condoning cleavage -- watch for the obligatory lean-over-a-colleagues-laptop scene in just about all cop, legal and medical dramas. After all, a sexy coroner has to have something under that oversized lab coat to tempt the docs.
There's simply no use for the "I see London, I see France...." rhyme we chanted as kids. Seeing someone's underpants? That's so yesterday. Chances are they're not wearing any.
Being a network censor back in the day was undoubtedly a stressful job. After all, they had to protect us from --- well I'm not sure what exactly. Today we're either all grown up or beyond redemption. My money's on the latter.
Fast forward some forty-plus years. If it's titillation you're looking for, turn on just about any channel. The recent Miss USA pageant featured belly button-exposed contestants in itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny yellow polka dot bikinis (sorry, I know that song's going to run through your head, but it so fit my sentence) skimpy enough for the beaches of Brazil.
TV has gone from banning belly buttons to condoning cleavage -- watch for the obligatory lean-over-a-colleagues-laptop scene in just about all cop, legal and medical dramas. After all, a sexy coroner has to have something under that oversized lab coat to tempt the docs.
There's simply no use for the "I see London, I see France...." rhyme we chanted as kids. Seeing someone's underpants? That's so yesterday. Chances are they're not wearing any.
Being a network censor back in the day was undoubtedly a stressful job. After all, they had to protect us from --- well I'm not sure what exactly. Today we're either all grown up or beyond redemption. My money's on the latter.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The Big Birthday Done Come and Gone
I've been whining and wailing about it for weeks, dreading it for days. Now it's happened. I turned sixty-freakin'-five yesterday.
Remember the Y2K scare? I poo-pooed it overall, but woke up January 1 with trepidation only to find the world still functioning. Well, it was kind of a repeat of that this morning -- nothing had changed. No new wrinkles, no new bone creakage, no new aches or pains -- of course all of the old ones were still there. Guess that would border on the miracle category, but then I do like to set the bar pretty high.
I often walk the labyrinth hoping for enlightenment on some level. No real aha moment this time, but one of those "it's all in the attitude" realizations. I'm much calmer today. It's either a new level of spiritual awareness or a sugar coma hangover from yesterday. That was one yummy birthday cannolli!
Yes, I'm a year older but buried somewhere in there is a year wiser as well. A multitude of insights to be shared. Stay tuned.
Remember the Y2K scare? I poo-pooed it overall, but woke up January 1 with trepidation only to find the world still functioning. Well, it was kind of a repeat of that this morning -- nothing had changed. No new wrinkles, no new bone creakage, no new aches or pains -- of course all of the old ones were still there. Guess that would border on the miracle category, but then I do like to set the bar pretty high.
I often walk the labyrinth hoping for enlightenment on some level. No real aha moment this time, but one of those "it's all in the attitude" realizations. I'm much calmer today. It's either a new level of spiritual awareness or a sugar coma hangover from yesterday. That was one yummy birthday cannolli!
Yes, I'm a year older but buried somewhere in there is a year wiser as well. A multitude of insights to be shared. Stay tuned.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Medicare, Here I Come!
I passed a milestone this week. I used my Medicare card for the very first time.
I was a tad reluctant to hand it over to the pharmacy clerk. In my mind it means I'm teetering on the threshold of geezer hood -- a mere six days til I'm officially 65 -- and when you flash that little red, white and blue card everyone knows it. I feel like I'm toting a freakin' American flag. Could they not have chosen more muted colors? Perhaps something in a shade of grey -- now that's symbolic.
Yes, I know I worked my entire adult life to "earn" the card but it feels akin to Hester Pryne sporting that capital "A" on her chest. Make mine an "O" for old or an "S" for senior or an "E" for elder -- whatever bit of alphabet works. Just no "TA" for Third-Ager as suggested in a recent article -- a term that makes me want to down a Costco size bottle of Rolaids.
Frankly, I think we'll always be Boomers even when we're pushing walkers and wearing adult diapers. We're a demographic within a demographic and we'll be studied to death as we age. Actually I'm feeling more like a pioneer, what with being in the first wave and all. I'll keep you posted on my journey.
I was a tad reluctant to hand it over to the pharmacy clerk. In my mind it means I'm teetering on the threshold of geezer hood -- a mere six days til I'm officially 65 -- and when you flash that little red, white and blue card everyone knows it. I feel like I'm toting a freakin' American flag. Could they not have chosen more muted colors? Perhaps something in a shade of grey -- now that's symbolic.
Yes, I know I worked my entire adult life to "earn" the card but it feels akin to Hester Pryne sporting that capital "A" on her chest. Make mine an "O" for old or an "S" for senior or an "E" for elder -- whatever bit of alphabet works. Just no "TA" for Third-Ager as suggested in a recent article -- a term that makes me want to down a Costco size bottle of Rolaids.
Frankly, I think we'll always be Boomers even when we're pushing walkers and wearing adult diapers. We're a demographic within a demographic and we'll be studied to death as we age. Actually I'm feeling more like a pioneer, what with being in the first wave and all. I'll keep you posted on my journey.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Politicians Behaving Badly -- Again
Yet another news story -- ad nausea -- this week about a politician behaving badly. Once the obvious jokes die down, he can line up behind our former president, several former governors, a former presidential candidate and, don't forget, the former House speaker who was motivated out of patriotism.
These scandals are becoming so common there should be a nationally televised competition for Cad of the Year. Contestants earn points for the event itself. Originality counts. Remember, the intern, the housekeeper, the high-priced call girl and the South American mistress have already been done so get creative. Score points for the press conference that most humiliates the suffering wife. Additional points for best denial. Bonus points if tears -- yours -- are shed.
Contestants show their talent for lying, covering up and back-pedaling.
Who would judge the pageant? Women every where a la American Idol.
Who would sponsor such a pageant? I'm thinkin' Viagra -- or does that send the wrong message?
These scandals are becoming so common there should be a nationally televised competition for Cad of the Year. Contestants earn points for the event itself. Originality counts. Remember, the intern, the housekeeper, the high-priced call girl and the South American mistress have already been done so get creative. Score points for the press conference that most humiliates the suffering wife. Additional points for best denial. Bonus points if tears -- yours -- are shed.
Contestants show their talent for lying, covering up and back-pedaling.
Who would judge the pageant? Women every where a la American Idol.
Who would sponsor such a pageant? I'm thinkin' Viagra -- or does that send the wrong message?
Monday, May 30, 2011
White Teeth -- Madison Avenue Strikes Again
Beauty is, as the adage goes, in the eye of the beholder. Blond, brunette, milky skin, freckles, chipmunk cheeks, willowy -- it's easy to find someone who agrees these traits are either attractive or not so much. And, they provide a pretty clear description. I could probably find someone at the airport given this basic information.
You rarely hear anything about dental status added to the list. So how did Americans become obsessed with white teeth? Check out any pharmacy and you'll go dizzy over the choices in teeth whiteners. TV commercials abound with women fretting that they don't have time to whiten before a big date.
Chalk it up as yet another project of Madison Avenue trying to define how we ought to look -- right up there with having firm, tight skin and nary a strand of grey.
A European once told me he could always spot an American. I thought he'd comment on our volume or the socks with sandals get-up -- both understandable targets. But he surprised me by saying we all have such white teeth.
Can you become obsessed with whitening? Addicted even? No one wants to look like they've spent months with Captain Jack Sparrow gnawing on bugs and berries, but there's no need to blind someone either. To paraphrase an old joke, you really want to help the over-whitener, but you'd miss using them as a night light.
You rarely hear anything about dental status added to the list. So how did Americans become obsessed with white teeth? Check out any pharmacy and you'll go dizzy over the choices in teeth whiteners. TV commercials abound with women fretting that they don't have time to whiten before a big date.
Chalk it up as yet another project of Madison Avenue trying to define how we ought to look -- right up there with having firm, tight skin and nary a strand of grey.
A European once told me he could always spot an American. I thought he'd comment on our volume or the socks with sandals get-up -- both understandable targets. But he surprised me by saying we all have such white teeth.
Can you become obsessed with whitening? Addicted even? No one wants to look like they've spent months with Captain Jack Sparrow gnawing on bugs and berries, but there's no need to blind someone either. To paraphrase an old joke, you really want to help the over-whitener, but you'd miss using them as a night light.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
End of Days -- Hooey or Holy?
In a few hours life as we know it could be over -- if you believe that today the rapture begins. Logically I think it's a load of hooey but I also feel a scintilla of emotion that keeps asking whether it's possible.
On a purely superficial level I'm going to be ticked off -- I just had my hair done. It's kind of like washing your car right before it rains. Of course if it really is the end, I'm going out looking utterly fabulous.
I've hardly lived a sin-free life but I've been a fairly good person. Am I rapture material? Questionable. I don't think I was given the holy gene. Twelve years of Catholic school, including daily Mass and family rosaries after dinner didn't make a spiritual dent. While high school friends joined the convent, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror with a towel framing my face proving I would make an extremely homely nun. Again, no holy gene. And when I questioned why the pope didn't sell his million dollar art collection and make a donation to the poor, the vein in dad's neck swelled to "call 911" proportions. Maybe my holy gene is recessive.
Less than two hours to go. Hope to see you back here next week, but just in case -- tata and thanks for reading.
On a purely superficial level I'm going to be ticked off -- I just had my hair done. It's kind of like washing your car right before it rains. Of course if it really is the end, I'm going out looking utterly fabulous.
I've hardly lived a sin-free life but I've been a fairly good person. Am I rapture material? Questionable. I don't think I was given the holy gene. Twelve years of Catholic school, including daily Mass and family rosaries after dinner didn't make a spiritual dent. While high school friends joined the convent, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror with a towel framing my face proving I would make an extremely homely nun. Again, no holy gene. And when I questioned why the pope didn't sell his million dollar art collection and make a donation to the poor, the vein in dad's neck swelled to "call 911" proportions. Maybe my holy gene is recessive.
Less than two hours to go. Hope to see you back here next week, but just in case -- tata and thanks for reading.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Words from the Wrinkle Expert
You've probably heard by now about the mother who injects her eight year old beauty-pageant-loving daughter with botox. Are you in the outraged camp or the smaller, but still vocal, so what camp? I'm in the "what the hell is she thinking" camp myself. The mom was on the morning shows pointing out all those disgusting wrinkles on the little girl's face. Frankly, she must use a Hubble telescope lens because I certainly couldn't see any creases.
I am nearing sixty-five and consider myself somewhat of an expert on wrinkles by virtue of having more than my share -- what comes after gazillion? Crow's feet? Check. Looks like an entire flock of birds have found a home. Laugh lines? Check. But I no longer see any humor in them.
And now that you got me started -- what's with all the age spots? When I was younger I had lots of freckles. Now they've morphed into these masses of brown splotches so I look like a dalmatian, albeit an oddly colored one. Some day I'm going to connect all the dots, mix in a few wrinkles, and see what comes up. That could be the beginning of an entire new geezer art form. At least this kind of body art would put the wrinkles to good use.
I am nearing sixty-five and consider myself somewhat of an expert on wrinkles by virtue of having more than my share -- what comes after gazillion? Crow's feet? Check. Looks like an entire flock of birds have found a home. Laugh lines? Check. But I no longer see any humor in them.
And now that you got me started -- what's with all the age spots? When I was younger I had lots of freckles. Now they've morphed into these masses of brown splotches so I look like a dalmatian, albeit an oddly colored one. Some day I'm going to connect all the dots, mix in a few wrinkles, and see what comes up. That could be the beginning of an entire new geezer art form. At least this kind of body art would put the wrinkles to good use.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Did We See The Same Movie?
Personal policy: Never read reviews before seeing a movie. Better to go in cold and form your own opinions.
Sadly, this policy is based on personal experience. I feel duped when I blindly believe a four-star rating only to realize that sitting in the dentist chair would be more entertaining. Did we really see the same movie?
I listen intently for the depth of character the reviewer wrote about at length. We're an hour into the film and, so far, the kiddies end of the pool is deeper than anyone in the film.
"Gripping story line" -- this from a male critic whose intellectual faculties have shut down due to the abundance of cleavage on screen. "Great acting" -- also written in a cleavage induced stupor. "A laugh-fest" -- again, let's go with the all-powerful cleavage.
What qualifications does it take to be a movie critic? Are they film school grads, serious movie buffs or is it people sitting in their pajamas surrounded by their twelve cats pounding out an opinion on their laptop?
Unfortunately, some of the more frequently read critics can make or break a movie with a few good praises or pans. They see so many movies I imagine they have to write the review immediately lest they mix up characters and plot. Envision Scarlett O'Hara skipping down the yellow brick road.
I check the newspaper for what's playing, not for what I should see. I choose a movie based on the actors and subject matter. Gotta be honest here though -- a few scenes showing a cute little butt never hurts.
Sadly, this policy is based on personal experience. I feel duped when I blindly believe a four-star rating only to realize that sitting in the dentist chair would be more entertaining. Did we really see the same movie?
I listen intently for the depth of character the reviewer wrote about at length. We're an hour into the film and, so far, the kiddies end of the pool is deeper than anyone in the film.
"Gripping story line" -- this from a male critic whose intellectual faculties have shut down due to the abundance of cleavage on screen. "Great acting" -- also written in a cleavage induced stupor. "A laugh-fest" -- again, let's go with the all-powerful cleavage.
What qualifications does it take to be a movie critic? Are they film school grads, serious movie buffs or is it people sitting in their pajamas surrounded by their twelve cats pounding out an opinion on their laptop?
Unfortunately, some of the more frequently read critics can make or break a movie with a few good praises or pans. They see so many movies I imagine they have to write the review immediately lest they mix up characters and plot. Envision Scarlett O'Hara skipping down the yellow brick road.
I check the newspaper for what's playing, not for what I should see. I choose a movie based on the actors and subject matter. Gotta be honest here though -- a few scenes showing a cute little butt never hurts.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
In Praise of the Artichoke
We tout inventors and discoverers in textbooks and documentaries, but I've always kept a soft spot for those who are overlooked. Like the first person to eat an artichoke. No name, no history, no gastronomic glory.
A dangerous looking plant covered in spikes and bristles, it hardly conveys an "I'm yummy, eat me" message. Ergo, that artichoke-eating trailblazer was either utterly famished or unbelievably curious.
Did they find the heart immediately or did it take months of gnawing on leaves before the "eureka, there's actually something tasty buried in here" moment?
I was served my first artichoke at a dinner party. Such exotic vegetables were foreign to my mother's kitchen. If it didn't come in a Green Giant can, she didn't serve it. So I was embarrassed that I'd never seen an artichoke and even more embarrassed that I had absolutely no idea whether to attack it with a knife, a fork or a spoon. The side dish of garlic mayonnaise just added to the dilemma. Was it for slathering or dipping? Either approach seemed like deplorable table manners so I waited --- and watched.
Thankfully others at the table were artichoke-adept so I mimicked them --- until it was time to uncover the heart. The frustration got the better of me and I blurted out that I was indeed an artichoke novice in need of guidance.
Hundreds of artichokes later, I still imagine that first brave soul who deemed the plant edible. Here's to your one day being at least a cookbook footnote -- or even mentioned in Wikipedia.
A dangerous looking plant covered in spikes and bristles, it hardly conveys an "I'm yummy, eat me" message. Ergo, that artichoke-eating trailblazer was either utterly famished or unbelievably curious.
Did they find the heart immediately or did it take months of gnawing on leaves before the "eureka, there's actually something tasty buried in here" moment?
I was served my first artichoke at a dinner party. Such exotic vegetables were foreign to my mother's kitchen. If it didn't come in a Green Giant can, she didn't serve it. So I was embarrassed that I'd never seen an artichoke and even more embarrassed that I had absolutely no idea whether to attack it with a knife, a fork or a spoon. The side dish of garlic mayonnaise just added to the dilemma. Was it for slathering or dipping? Either approach seemed like deplorable table manners so I waited --- and watched.
Thankfully others at the table were artichoke-adept so I mimicked them --- until it was time to uncover the heart. The frustration got the better of me and I blurted out that I was indeed an artichoke novice in need of guidance.
Hundreds of artichokes later, I still imagine that first brave soul who deemed the plant edible. Here's to your one day being at least a cookbook footnote -- or even mentioned in Wikipedia.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Size Does Matter
Show of hands, please. Who's going to watch the royal wedding next week live starting in the middle of the night our time? I thought so. Any certifiably sane person will be sound asleep.
News flash, folks! Said royal wedding will be repeated ad nauseam on any number of channels as well as on-line. Unless you're actually British, I don't see the point of losing sleep over the nuptials.
Now if you want to make a pajama party out of it, that's different. Gather your girlfriends -- your male friends probably aren't interested unless the bridesmaids are naked. Brew a pot of tea. Warm a few scones. And, most importantly, don the wildest hat you can find.
What is it with the Brits and those hats? Apparently size does matter. The wider the brim the better the hat. What's the protocol when one large hat meets another? Does the larger hat lean to the right or the left? One needs to know these things before delivering an air kiss. Perhaps British girls learn these points of etiquette in school, while we Yanks -- definitely not into the large hat scene --ponder over which fork to use.
Hats perched on the side of the head are particularly interesting. They look like the work of a crazed origami master who was let loose with yards of fabric. Since they appear to defy gravity I wonder what holds them on?
My grandmother used hat pins so large they could pop the Hindenburg. Are they the key? Giant bobby pins -- jeez, does anyone under a certain age know what a bobby pin is? Maybe they're lined with a special adhesive -- kind of like a chapeau post-it, guaranteed not to give you hat-hair.
I'm thankful I wasn't invited to the royal wedding, Too much hat anxiety.
News flash, folks! Said royal wedding will be repeated ad nauseam on any number of channels as well as on-line. Unless you're actually British, I don't see the point of losing sleep over the nuptials.
Now if you want to make a pajama party out of it, that's different. Gather your girlfriends -- your male friends probably aren't interested unless the bridesmaids are naked. Brew a pot of tea. Warm a few scones. And, most importantly, don the wildest hat you can find.
What is it with the Brits and those hats? Apparently size does matter. The wider the brim the better the hat. What's the protocol when one large hat meets another? Does the larger hat lean to the right or the left? One needs to know these things before delivering an air kiss. Perhaps British girls learn these points of etiquette in school, while we Yanks -- definitely not into the large hat scene --ponder over which fork to use.
Hats perched on the side of the head are particularly interesting. They look like the work of a crazed origami master who was let loose with yards of fabric. Since they appear to defy gravity I wonder what holds them on?
My grandmother used hat pins so large they could pop the Hindenburg. Are they the key? Giant bobby pins -- jeez, does anyone under a certain age know what a bobby pin is? Maybe they're lined with a special adhesive -- kind of like a chapeau post-it, guaranteed not to give you hat-hair.
I'm thankful I wasn't invited to the royal wedding, Too much hat anxiety.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Long Live the Paragraph!
If you follow this blog regularly, you'll notice that the last few posts appeared as one long paragraph -- no indenting, no spacing. Lest you think I've lost my formatting mind or my grasp of English grammar, let me explain.
While I am an avid fan of white space and short paragraphs, unfortunately the blogspot techies are not.
When I reviewed the original text, all my paragraphs were right where I left them. But press the "publish post" icon and all semblance of paragraphing vanishes into some e.e. cummings hole in cyberspace. Can you say "glitch"? Can you also say "helpless"? Can you also say --- well, perhaps I should keep that one to myself.
These are the times I think the Luddites are onto something. But before letting a computer claim victory, I went -- where else? -- to the "help" page. Apparently there is a virtual cadre of other victims trapped in formatting hell. I found solace in knowing that others cherish the paragraph as I do. I found annoyance in knowing that the solutions offered were useless.
I feel the urge to go back to those one-Dickensian-length-paragraph posts and enter the word "paragraph" where one should be. Since I can't have actual white space, I'll just make my own.
While I am an avid fan of white space and short paragraphs, unfortunately the blogspot techies are not.
When I reviewed the original text, all my paragraphs were right where I left them. But press the "publish post" icon and all semblance of paragraphing vanishes into some e.e. cummings hole in cyberspace. Can you say "glitch"? Can you also say "helpless"? Can you also say --- well, perhaps I should keep that one to myself.
These are the times I think the Luddites are onto something. But before letting a computer claim victory, I went -- where else? -- to the "help" page. Apparently there is a virtual cadre of other victims trapped in formatting hell. I found solace in knowing that others cherish the paragraph as I do. I found annoyance in knowing that the solutions offered were useless.
I feel the urge to go back to those one-Dickensian-length-paragraph posts and enter the word "paragraph" where one should be. Since I can't have actual white space, I'll just make my own.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Stay Calm -- and Carry a Cell Phone
I'm not one of those people who freak out easily. In fact, I'm usually the one who holds it all together advising others to remain calm. If I were a cartoon character, I'd be drawn with horn-rimmed glasses, my hair in a bun, wearing orthopedic shoes. You laugh, but next time you're in a situation you'll flash on that image and pray I was with you. Unfortunately, my reputation as the Queen of Calm is forever tainted. It seems I do freak out easily --- when my building elevator gets stuck between floors --- oh yeah, with me in it! In this old building the elevator has no emergency call buttons, phones, walkie-talkies, tribal drums or carrier pigeons to connect with the outside world. I had to rely on the most primitive form of communication -- yelling my freakin' head off. To no avail, I might add. I am the Moaner in Chief when it comes to people misusing their cell phones -- and that probably won't change -- but I finally got to prove my "they're great in an emergency" theory. So here I am trapped in a little box dangling in the elevator shaft. Who ya gonna call? The Fire Department! I fully expected them to bolt up the stairs, break down the door with an axe and pull me to safety. Guess I watch too many movies. Apparently they prefer a less invasive, albeit less dramatic tool -- a screwdriver. The hunky firemen took the door off its hinges, out I stepped and off they went. The good news? I climb the stairs more than I used to. Still don't quite trust Mr. Otis' invention.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Sugar Trumps Science
Think about all the diets you've been on. Well, maybe not all of them or this could take a while. You probably bought the book, watched the DVD or called the toll-free number "in the next twenty minutes" after being persuaded by the smiling, svelte infomercial success stories. Count the times you joined a gym, only to drop out. Those fees alone could probably feed an entire Guatemalan village for life. Apparently we've been doing it all wrong. Scientists have published a study that proves the best way to cut calories is to think about calories. Let's say you want a burrito. According to these lab coats, if you think enough about wanting a burrito, even mime yourself eating one, you'll trick your brain into no longer craving said burrito. It thinks it's satisfied even though nary a dollop of guacamole has passed your lips. I'm always open to possibilities but haven't found this to be true in my life. If I think about chocolate, for example, I will obsess about it until I actually have a real live bit resting on my tongue, sending my taste buds into a state of sheer bliss. Go ahead -- trick me into thinking I've already eaten leafy green vegetables, turnips and zucchini...just don't mess with my sweet tooth. Besides, if I pretend to unwrap a Snickers, won't I find imaginary peanuts? Talk about a last straw.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Wassup with English? OMG!
Warning: the following breaking news might make English language purists weep. Read on at your own risk and hang on to your Roget's.
The Oxford English Dictionary -- the dictionary of all dictionaries -- has decided to include LOL and OMG in its next on-line edition.
Wait, there's more. "Wassup" is also among the new entries. I saved it for last since it might push the "Stop Language Alterations and Atrocities" groups over the edge. I know I'm teetering.
Perhaps Noah Webster's rolling over in his grave, but I think if he were around today he'd be one happy lexicographer -- and possibly a texter. I'd like to think he'd bookmark the Urban Dictionary. There's an abundance of colorful, descriptive words being coined and infused into every day conversation. No one could ever accuse spoken English of being a dull, dry language. Of course, there are the French who'd rather not have their native tongue tainted with words like Levi's or Google, but that's a discussion for another day.
I don't know wassup with the OED or what criteria they use. But, oh my god, these entries make me laugh out loud.
The Oxford English Dictionary -- the dictionary of all dictionaries -- has decided to include LOL and OMG in its next on-line edition.
Wait, there's more. "Wassup" is also among the new entries. I saved it for last since it might push the "Stop Language Alterations and Atrocities" groups over the edge. I know I'm teetering.
Perhaps Noah Webster's rolling over in his grave, but I think if he were around today he'd be one happy lexicographer -- and possibly a texter. I'd like to think he'd bookmark the Urban Dictionary. There's an abundance of colorful, descriptive words being coined and infused into every day conversation. No one could ever accuse spoken English of being a dull, dry language. Of course, there are the French who'd rather not have their native tongue tainted with words like Levi's or Google, but that's a discussion for another day.
I don't know wassup with the OED or what criteria they use. But, oh my god, these entries make me laugh out loud.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Visit California -- While You Can
Living in earthquake country is an every day gamble. You never know where those seismic dice will land. At least when you park your tush in Vegas you have some idea of the odds, and you get free booze. Here seismologists predict "the big one" -- that's when Nevadans will inherit beach front property since most of California will have fallen into the Pacific -- sometime in the next 30-100 years.
Could they be a tad more specific? Apparently not. They know why earthquakes happen. Just not when.
However, there's a maverick geologist making the rounds on the local news who claims we'll have an earthquake here in the next eight days. He's basing his prediction on various scientific pre-quake indicators -- some of which, like the beaching of dead whales along the coast, have not yet occurred. This is the part where you keep your fingers crossed and don't read anything too biblical into unusual phenomena like thousands of dead fish in a Southern California harbor.
Do I believe him or not? Does he know something other seismologists don't? It's like anyone telling your future or reading your horoscope. You want to believe the good bits but pooh pooh the bad. Only in the case of an earthquake there are no good bits. Unlike Carol King, I'd rather not feel the earth move under my feet.
I think it just makes people more anxious than they already are. We're already sitting in the path of a possible radiation plume and the stores are out of whatever iodine capsules we're supposed to be taking as an antidote. Was that a passing truck shaking the windows or.....?
Whether the guy is right or wrong, I am motivated to replenish my survival kit. The canned tuna is beyond its shelf life and I ate the chocolate in a bout of depression over the holidays.
Could they be a tad more specific? Apparently not. They know why earthquakes happen. Just not when.
However, there's a maverick geologist making the rounds on the local news who claims we'll have an earthquake here in the next eight days. He's basing his prediction on various scientific pre-quake indicators -- some of which, like the beaching of dead whales along the coast, have not yet occurred. This is the part where you keep your fingers crossed and don't read anything too biblical into unusual phenomena like thousands of dead fish in a Southern California harbor.
Do I believe him or not? Does he know something other seismologists don't? It's like anyone telling your future or reading your horoscope. You want to believe the good bits but pooh pooh the bad. Only in the case of an earthquake there are no good bits. Unlike Carol King, I'd rather not feel the earth move under my feet.
I think it just makes people more anxious than they already are. We're already sitting in the path of a possible radiation plume and the stores are out of whatever iodine capsules we're supposed to be taking as an antidote. Was that a passing truck shaking the windows or.....?
Whether the guy is right or wrong, I am motivated to replenish my survival kit. The canned tuna is beyond its shelf life and I ate the chocolate in a bout of depression over the holidays.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Where Everybody Knows Your Name
Did you remember to change your clocks last night? It's fascinating how we can alter time with a mere spin of the hour hand. A reminder just how arbitrary time is. We all agree it's two o'clock and swoosh, we all agree it's three.
Last night it was just an hour. Every four years we add an entire day to the calendar.
If we can so easily mess with time, then why are we so hung up on age? Some of us hesitate to tell the truth. Others pick a particularly good year and stick with it. And the adage "sixty is the new forty" has become a mantra. Frankly, I'm not at all sure what that means. Why can't sixty just be the new sixty? After all, we're not the same sixty our parents were.
I'll be turning sixty-five soon and I plan to celebrate. But check back with me in a few months when the day actually arrives. You might just find me under the covers curled up in a sixty-five year old ball -- reading the heaps of Medicare brochures I'm currently receiving in the mail.
How do these insurance companies know my name, address and birth date? Is there a national soon-to-be-geezer roster? If so, I want to be on the "do not mail" list.
Last night it was just an hour. Every four years we add an entire day to the calendar.
If we can so easily mess with time, then why are we so hung up on age? Some of us hesitate to tell the truth. Others pick a particularly good year and stick with it. And the adage "sixty is the new forty" has become a mantra. Frankly, I'm not at all sure what that means. Why can't sixty just be the new sixty? After all, we're not the same sixty our parents were.
I'll be turning sixty-five soon and I plan to celebrate. But check back with me in a few months when the day actually arrives. You might just find me under the covers curled up in a sixty-five year old ball -- reading the heaps of Medicare brochures I'm currently receiving in the mail.
How do these insurance companies know my name, address and birth date? Is there a national soon-to-be-geezer roster? If so, I want to be on the "do not mail" list.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Take Two of These and...
You don't actually have to work on Madison Avenue to know that an advertiser places commercials where they will be seen by the proper demographic. Beer during a sporting event. Sugar laced cereals during Saturday morning cartoons. Just about any kind of prescription drugs during the network evening news.
Have you watched any of the three major networks news broadcasts recently? If not you're missing out on a litany of remedies to lower your cholesterol, keep your heart healthy, have great sex -- well maybe just sex, period -- and a laundry list of other ailments frequently associated with older adults, including gout. With all due respect to those who suffer from it, I thought gout ended with the Victorians.
They all begin with a grey haired actor complaining of some malfunctioning body part. Scene Two: they talk to their doctor about this miracle drug. Scene Three: grey haired actor romps with the grandchildren, wins at tennis, or flirts with their partner -- and we know where that leads.
I need to know -- have you ever asked your doctor about a drug you've seen in a commercial? Show of hands, please. Used to be the doc would just hand you a prescription and command you to pop a few pills daily. Now you can be pro-active with your meds all because of some advertising creative team whose combined ages don't yet match ours.
Do these children think we obsess about ailing health? That we're just one walking mass of pain? We may no longer be able to kick like a Rockette, but we're not ready for bucket kicking either.
Have you watched any of the three major networks news broadcasts recently? If not you're missing out on a litany of remedies to lower your cholesterol, keep your heart healthy, have great sex -- well maybe just sex, period -- and a laundry list of other ailments frequently associated with older adults, including gout. With all due respect to those who suffer from it, I thought gout ended with the Victorians.
They all begin with a grey haired actor complaining of some malfunctioning body part. Scene Two: they talk to their doctor about this miracle drug. Scene Three: grey haired actor romps with the grandchildren, wins at tennis, or flirts with their partner -- and we know where that leads.
I need to know -- have you ever asked your doctor about a drug you've seen in a commercial? Show of hands, please. Used to be the doc would just hand you a prescription and command you to pop a few pills daily. Now you can be pro-active with your meds all because of some advertising creative team whose combined ages don't yet match ours.
Do these children think we obsess about ailing health? That we're just one walking mass of pain? We may no longer be able to kick like a Rockette, but we're not ready for bucket kicking either.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
You ARE Going Out Looking Like That?
The Academy Awards are tomorrow night and, like last year, I've not seen most of the nominated movies. Because I'll have no knowledge of acting, writing or directing quality, I'll have to focus on a topic wide open to opinions based on sheer gut reaction -- the fashions!
Criticizing celebrity style -- or lack thereof -- brings out the inner Joan Rivers in all of us. I'm not talking about the fashion A-listers. We expect them to wow us with their couture.
I'm talking about those who make us wonder if they have a...whaddya call it?....oh yeah...a mirror in their Hollywood mansion. How many times did your mother stop you in your date night tracks by asking "You're not going out looking like that, are you?" A warning delivered by mothers around the planet. There's probably a mother in Oceania scrutinizing her daughter's outfit even as we speak -- well, actually read, but you get my point.
Many celebs consult stylists. They have people who dress them, do their hair and makeup. Does a stylist need actual training or just have to know their way around Rodeo Drive? While most of us would drool for someone to pamper us like that, I think we'd draw the proverbial line at looking like a Clown College alum.
I've no idea who'll be wearing something jaw droppingly awful on the red carpet. But I'm sure there'll be someone who will do for the Oscars what Lady Gaga did for the Grammy's.
Criticizing celebrity style -- or lack thereof -- brings out the inner Joan Rivers in all of us. I'm not talking about the fashion A-listers. We expect them to wow us with their couture.
I'm talking about those who make us wonder if they have a...whaddya call it?....oh yeah...a mirror in their Hollywood mansion. How many times did your mother stop you in your date night tracks by asking "You're not going out looking like that, are you?" A warning delivered by mothers around the planet. There's probably a mother in Oceania scrutinizing her daughter's outfit even as we speak -- well, actually read, but you get my point.
Many celebs consult stylists. They have people who dress them, do their hair and makeup. Does a stylist need actual training or just have to know their way around Rodeo Drive? While most of us would drool for someone to pamper us like that, I think we'd draw the proverbial line at looking like a Clown College alum.
I've no idea who'll be wearing something jaw droppingly awful on the red carpet. But I'm sure there'll be someone who will do for the Oscars what Lady Gaga did for the Grammy's.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Reading Causes Wrinkles?
A giant overstuffed chair for curling up in and all the novels of the world at my fingertips. That's my idea of heaven. I'm an avid reader. Give me a hearty -- or a Hardy -- novel and a comfy place to park my tush and I am indeed blissful.
I have favorite authors but I'm always open to try someone new. I tend to balance my reading list with both classics and current releases. Unfortunately, I've too often been sucked into the hype of a "New York Times Bestseller" or "Named the Year's Best Novel by ..." or "Short-listed for the Booker Prize" blurb on the cover. Did we read the same book? After a disappointing contemporary novel, I retreat to Mr. Dickens or Ms. Austen. They never disappoint.
Like most of us, I want a good story, dimensional characters you can cheer for and cry with. My book selection process is a simple one: read the summary on the back cover, then thumb through, scanning a few random pages.
But I've recently been forced to add something new to the mix. Type size! How close will I have to hold the book to actually, well, read it? Will I need a magnifying glass to make it through the prologue? Think about the bottom lines of an eye chart. Now think about an entire chapter in that size. It's difficult to make out without squinting and crinkling my forehead.
Books will soon come with a warning label: Caution -- may cause unwanted wrinkles.
I have favorite authors but I'm always open to try someone new. I tend to balance my reading list with both classics and current releases. Unfortunately, I've too often been sucked into the hype of a "New York Times Bestseller" or "Named the Year's Best Novel by ..." or "Short-listed for the Booker Prize" blurb on the cover. Did we read the same book? After a disappointing contemporary novel, I retreat to Mr. Dickens or Ms. Austen. They never disappoint.
Like most of us, I want a good story, dimensional characters you can cheer for and cry with. My book selection process is a simple one: read the summary on the back cover, then thumb through, scanning a few random pages.
But I've recently been forced to add something new to the mix. Type size! How close will I have to hold the book to actually, well, read it? Will I need a magnifying glass to make it through the prologue? Think about the bottom lines of an eye chart. Now think about an entire chapter in that size. It's difficult to make out without squinting and crinkling my forehead.
Books will soon come with a warning label: Caution -- may cause unwanted wrinkles.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Valentine's Day -- Love It Or Hate It?
Let's just cut to the chase and choose the most obvious topic for this week's post -- Valentine's Day. Either you love it or you hate it.
In this corner are those who sincerely believe that Valentine's Day is a vast conspiracy dreamed up by the greeting card, candy and flower industries. It's a day that utterly wreaks of guilt. Don't believe me? Test it out.
Forget the five pound box of chocolates. No roses -- long-stemmed or otherwise -- for your sweetie. Buy nothing pink. No heart shaped anything. Finally, mention what a stupid, contrived day you think it is. Then just march your sorry heart shaped butt to the proverbial doghouse cuz that's where you'll be serving time.
In the other corner are those who immerse themselves in Valentine's Day. What greeting card, candy or flower industries conspiracy? These guys are first in line to mail the cards, buy the candy and send the flowers. No sweetheart? No problem. Aficionados of all that is February 14th view the day through a wide lens. No sweetheart? No problem. Friends and acquaintances make their list.
The best thing about February 14th is February 15th. That's when all that heart shaped chocolate goes on sale.
In this corner are those who sincerely believe that Valentine's Day is a vast conspiracy dreamed up by the greeting card, candy and flower industries. It's a day that utterly wreaks of guilt. Don't believe me? Test it out.
Forget the five pound box of chocolates. No roses -- long-stemmed or otherwise -- for your sweetie. Buy nothing pink. No heart shaped anything. Finally, mention what a stupid, contrived day you think it is. Then just march your sorry heart shaped butt to the proverbial doghouse cuz that's where you'll be serving time.
In the other corner are those who immerse themselves in Valentine's Day. What greeting card, candy or flower industries conspiracy? These guys are first in line to mail the cards, buy the candy and send the flowers. No sweetheart? No problem. Aficionados of all that is February 14th view the day through a wide lens. No sweetheart? No problem. Friends and acquaintances make their list.
The best thing about February 14th is February 15th. That's when all that heart shaped chocolate goes on sale.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Noise While We Nosh?
Gather a friend or two for good food and lively conversation and it doesn't really matter what or where we eat. The chat's the thing.
But lately it seems that the decibel level in restaurants has been seriously cranked up. Ah, you say. Noise -- the chief complaint of a budding geezer. There may be some truth to that, but I think others will agree that we shouldn't need a bull horn to converse across the dining table.
I enjoy a lively atmosphere. If it's quiet I want, I'll take a sandwich to the library. But a cafe shouldn't sound like game seven of the World Series either.
You don't need Webster to figure out that background music is, well, in the background. Background music in a restaurant is not the same as background music on the assembly line at General Motors. My recent server delivered the litany of specials that could have been franks and beans for all I heard.
I'm also big on ambiance. When I eat Hawaiian I expect to hear a freakin' ukulele -- yes, in the background. I'd like a side of mariachi with my burrito, por favor. A little oom-pah-pah with my sauerkraut.
Shouting over the din to table mates has become the norm. And it's really put a damper on my eavesdropping. Now I'll never know the back story of the couple at the next table.
But lately it seems that the decibel level in restaurants has been seriously cranked up. Ah, you say. Noise -- the chief complaint of a budding geezer. There may be some truth to that, but I think others will agree that we shouldn't need a bull horn to converse across the dining table.
I enjoy a lively atmosphere. If it's quiet I want, I'll take a sandwich to the library. But a cafe shouldn't sound like game seven of the World Series either.
You don't need Webster to figure out that background music is, well, in the background. Background music in a restaurant is not the same as background music on the assembly line at General Motors. My recent server delivered the litany of specials that could have been franks and beans for all I heard.
I'm also big on ambiance. When I eat Hawaiian I expect to hear a freakin' ukulele -- yes, in the background. I'd like a side of mariachi with my burrito, por favor. A little oom-pah-pah with my sauerkraut.
Shouting over the din to table mates has become the norm. And it's really put a damper on my eavesdropping. Now I'll never know the back story of the couple at the next table.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Love Those Little Chocolates
My favorite candy snack? Without a doubt -- m&m's. Just a handful usually satisfies the craving for...make that the need for...okay, I'll admit it -- the obsession for chocolate. I usually keep a bag in my purse in case of emergency blood sugar dips so I guess you could say I nosh for medical reasons. Why do I feel the necessity to justify my chocolate addiction?
Unlike those who claim to have preferences, I am m&m's color blind. The greens taste no different than the reds, the yellows, the browns or the blues. But then I can't tell the difference between Coke and Pepsi either.
Some follow unusual procedures when tackling a bag of these bite-sized sweets. For example, eat all the yellows first, then the reds, then the blues etc. These rituals might come from a childhood game or memory. But it may not be a stretch to say that these same people consult a Magic 8 Ball or a Ouija Board as well.
Me? There's no method to my munching madness. Place fingers in bag. Grab handful. Move handful to mouth. Repeat process til bag is empty. The bags are small enough so you don't really overdo it. Just enough to satisfy that sweet tooth, which in my case is a molar.
However, a recent bag was seemingly bottomless. I ate a few, later another few, the next day a few more. Before thanking the heavens for a loaves and fishes miracle, I read the bag. There it was, in large colored type: Sharing Size!
Blast! As if eating chocolate wasn't guilt inducing enough. Now I need to feed the hungry as well.
Unlike those who claim to have preferences, I am m&m's color blind. The greens taste no different than the reds, the yellows, the browns or the blues. But then I can't tell the difference between Coke and Pepsi either.
Some follow unusual procedures when tackling a bag of these bite-sized sweets. For example, eat all the yellows first, then the reds, then the blues etc. These rituals might come from a childhood game or memory. But it may not be a stretch to say that these same people consult a Magic 8 Ball or a Ouija Board as well.
Me? There's no method to my munching madness. Place fingers in bag. Grab handful. Move handful to mouth. Repeat process til bag is empty. The bags are small enough so you don't really overdo it. Just enough to satisfy that sweet tooth, which in my case is a molar.
However, a recent bag was seemingly bottomless. I ate a few, later another few, the next day a few more. Before thanking the heavens for a loaves and fishes miracle, I read the bag. There it was, in large colored type: Sharing Size!
Blast! As if eating chocolate wasn't guilt inducing enough. Now I need to feed the hungry as well.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Is There Armrest Etiquette?
Does anyone know the etiquette of sharing an armrest? Is there any? Here are a few techniques I've used, but I'm not endorsing any of them. You decide whether they fall into the polite category or do they broadcast some deeply rooted personality flaw.
First: the "my edge/thy edge" share. My limb rests gently on my side while thine does the same on thy side. Here's hoping that my elbow doth not touch thine.
Second: the "I'll take the front/thou takest the back" approach to sharing. It's understood that the rear position be taken by the sharer with shorter arms, thus keeping us from leaning freakishly forward to claim armrest victory.
Third: the "it's my turn to hog the entire space/when I'm done it belongs to thou" share. This is the trickiest one of all since it's instinctive. How long is too long? All of Act One? Hardly. Halfway through the flight? Probably not.
Fourth: the "let me inch my way over to thy side before thou realizes I've pushed thee out of armrest territory" strategy.
It's surprising how competitive we are for the coveted armrest. The second our seat mate reaches for a tissue, we're all over that now vacant space and the battle begins anew.
Why did I use ye olde English pronouns above? Because I think the only way to survive the battle of the armrests is to think Quaker-like thoughts. Of course they're peaceful, not necessarily saintly. Wonder what it's like to share an armrest with one of them.
First: the "my edge/thy edge" share. My limb rests gently on my side while thine does the same on thy side. Here's hoping that my elbow doth not touch thine.
Second: the "I'll take the front/thou takest the back" approach to sharing. It's understood that the rear position be taken by the sharer with shorter arms, thus keeping us from leaning freakishly forward to claim armrest victory.
Third: the "it's my turn to hog the entire space/when I'm done it belongs to thou" share. This is the trickiest one of all since it's instinctive. How long is too long? All of Act One? Hardly. Halfway through the flight? Probably not.
Fourth: the "let me inch my way over to thy side before thou realizes I've pushed thee out of armrest territory" strategy.
It's surprising how competitive we are for the coveted armrest. The second our seat mate reaches for a tissue, we're all over that now vacant space and the battle begins anew.
Why did I use ye olde English pronouns above? Because I think the only way to survive the battle of the armrests is to think Quaker-like thoughts. Of course they're peaceful, not necessarily saintly. Wonder what it's like to share an armrest with one of them.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
So What's Your Sign? No, Seriously!
First the demotion of Pluto. Now the zodiac shake-up. Something to do with the tilting of the earth's axis over a few thousand years, mixed with the fact that the Babylonians omitted a sign from the original model.
Imagine the chaos in the minds of the true believers who rely on an accurate horoscope to plan their day -- and no reliable horoscope to turn to for guidance.
Face it -- even we non-believers check the ol' horoscope one time or another. When it's good news, we'd like to believe it. When it's bad, the pooh pooh factor kicks in.
My personal upset? Under this new system I am no longer a Gemini. I've always liked the personality traits of the twins -- creative, unpredictable, loyal, kind, logical. I like the idea of being a duo. Sometimes you need the back-up.
Should this revisionist zodiac kick in, I will be a Taurus. A bull? Pullleeze! How very unyielding. So unromantic. Far too masculine.
Once a Gemini, always a Gemini. A Taurus I will never be. Uh oh. That doesn't sound too stubborn and unyielding, does it?
Imagine the chaos in the minds of the true believers who rely on an accurate horoscope to plan their day -- and no reliable horoscope to turn to for guidance.
Face it -- even we non-believers check the ol' horoscope one time or another. When it's good news, we'd like to believe it. When it's bad, the pooh pooh factor kicks in.
My personal upset? Under this new system I am no longer a Gemini. I've always liked the personality traits of the twins -- creative, unpredictable, loyal, kind, logical. I like the idea of being a duo. Sometimes you need the back-up.
Should this revisionist zodiac kick in, I will be a Taurus. A bull? Pullleeze! How very unyielding. So unromantic. Far too masculine.
Once a Gemini, always a Gemini. A Taurus I will never be. Uh oh. That doesn't sound too stubborn and unyielding, does it?
Saturday, January 8, 2011
The Holidays Done Come and Gone
The holidays are officially just a memory. January 6th -- the Epiphany, Twelfth Night, the Twelfth Day of Christmas, Little Christmas -- is the cut off date for most of us. Keep your tree or decorations up much longer than that and the neighbors start talking.
There isn't a remnant of Christmas anywhere in Union Square -- the major shopping area here in San Francisco. Makes you question whether it really happened or were you in some dream world since Thanksgiving? Mind you, it's a dream world in which you have your Visa card in hand ready to pounce on a good deal. And, mind you, that dream could morph into nightmare status when you get the bill later this month.
The saddest part of this post-holiday season is the trees cast out on the sidewalk -- next stop the city's mulching machine. That tree gave its life so you'd have a place to hang some cheap tinsel.
Now may it -- the tree, not the tinsel -- rest in peace.
This, of course, poses a philosophical question whether a mulched tree actually rests anywhere since it's scattered around the many parks and gardens. Perhaps the tree is just part of the cycle of life -- it grows, it gets chopped down, we decorate it, it gets chewed into a bazillion pieces, then spit out in order to help other plants live. It's an altruistic little evergreen that contains symbolism which.......
Please, someone stop me before I start singing Kumbaya.
There isn't a remnant of Christmas anywhere in Union Square -- the major shopping area here in San Francisco. Makes you question whether it really happened or were you in some dream world since Thanksgiving? Mind you, it's a dream world in which you have your Visa card in hand ready to pounce on a good deal. And, mind you, that dream could morph into nightmare status when you get the bill later this month.
The saddest part of this post-holiday season is the trees cast out on the sidewalk -- next stop the city's mulching machine. That tree gave its life so you'd have a place to hang some cheap tinsel.
Now may it -- the tree, not the tinsel -- rest in peace.
This, of course, poses a philosophical question whether a mulched tree actually rests anywhere since it's scattered around the many parks and gardens. Perhaps the tree is just part of the cycle of life -- it grows, it gets chopped down, we decorate it, it gets chewed into a bazillion pieces, then spit out in order to help other plants live. It's an altruistic little evergreen that contains symbolism which.......
Please, someone stop me before I start singing Kumbaya.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Two Thousand Eleven or.....?
Happy New Year! I hope I'm not disturbing your resolution-making session or writing too loudly in the case of any hung over readers.
Whether you make resolutions or not, there's something special about the first day of a new year. It's just so hopeful, so full of promise. A 365-day do-over.
Unfortunately, I often dwell on the dark side -- those things I failed to complete or even start last year. But I am getting better mainly because, as I get older, I have a difficult time remembering my to-do list from last January. Three cheers for failing synapses!
The new year does pose a problem. Do I pronounce it two thousand eleven or twenty-eleven?
You'd think that after 10 years, I'd be more comfortable with the two thousands, but they still sound like a mouthful to me.
Whether you make resolutions or not, there's something special about the first day of a new year. It's just so hopeful, so full of promise. A 365-day do-over.
Unfortunately, I often dwell on the dark side -- those things I failed to complete or even start last year. But I am getting better mainly because, as I get older, I have a difficult time remembering my to-do list from last January. Three cheers for failing synapses!
The new year does pose a problem. Do I pronounce it two thousand eleven or twenty-eleven?
You'd think that after 10 years, I'd be more comfortable with the two thousands, but they still sound like a mouthful to me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)